


Lazarus Reanimated

by Zanne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel went to grip Dean tight and raise him from perdition, Dean was already gone. Sam had gotten there first, even if he hadn't known he'd done it at all. This is "Lazarus Rising" if it went a little differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazarus Reanimated

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://kimberlyfdr.livejournal.com/profile)[**kimberlyfdr**](http://kimberlyfdr.livejournal.com/)  for beta-ing! Kripke owns all. (Originally posted: 8/7/09)

  
For several weeks after Dean suddenly turned up at the door to his motel room, Sam didn’t realize what exactly had happened.

Seeing Dean whole and alive, after months of the absolute certainty that his brother was dead and in Hell for the rest of eternity, left his higher brain functions sputtering by the roadside as Sam was consumed by the utter relief that Dean was _back_ , and the guilt that had been weighing Sam down for over a year finally lessened its hold on him.

The _how_ of the situation just didn’t seem all that important, at first.

So what if Dean smelled slightly…stale, with the odd, overly sweet scent of a funeral home at the close of business. He’d been dead for a not insignificant span of time, and then dug his way out of his own grave; that had to have influenced Dean’s body chemistry or hygiene or something.

Dean hadn’t bathed properly in four months, Sam rationalized. He was just lucky he was able to sit with Dean in the car without gagging, even if he did have to keep the windows rolled down all of the time now, and Dean had developed an odd inability to make a proper left-hand turn. Even the concept of the gearshift seemed to confound Dean these days, and they wound up going in reverse more often than required on the usual drive.

It got so bad that Sam took over driving just to make sure that Dean didn’t die again in some silly traffic accident. Dean was surprisingly acquiescent to Sam’s demands, seemingly content to stick his head out of the open window and watch the pedestrians on the sidewalk with an absurdly intense focus.

Though he sometimes still fiddled with the gearshift when Sam wasn’t looking.

Sure, Dean might be a little less communicative than usual, responding more with grunts and growls than actual verbalizations, but Sam had learned to decipher inarticulate Dean as a child. It was just like translating Dean after a night of drinking, or when he first woke up in the morning, or at nearly every meal when he insisted on talking with his mouth full.

As for that, it wasn’t like silverware was a necessary part of the dining experience; it was more of a suggestion than a steadfast rule, Sam figured. If someone were to pick something up – like the rare slabs of meat Dean seemed to favor these days - with his hands and shove it into his mouth, decorating both his face and shirt with the detritus of his feedings until he looked like he’d just walked out of a slaughterhouse, well then, that’s what those free wet naps were for, right?

But things seemed to be pretty much back to normal. Dean snapped at Ruby with a little more show of teeth, but tempers were bound to be short, especially between a guy who had been dead all summer and the demon that was partially responsible for his demise.

Sam was sure he’d be a little grumpy, too, if he’d clawed his way out of his own grave and no one believed him. He had found himself a bit peeved for no reason when he came back from the dead that one time, so he understood where Dean might be coming from.

Being one of the recently deceased gave Dean a lot of leeway, Sam decided; improper social etiquette seemed a small price to pay.

Once he thought about it, maybe not much had changed after all. 

                                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam glanced at his watch as he juggled the car keys and the carryout container of coffee, figuring Dean would appreciate the caffeine after this impromptu meeting with Ruby. Why Ruby had insisted on talking to Dean without him, Sam wasn’t sure, but she had shoved Sam out of the door with barely a word of explanation, saying that she and Dean had a few things to discuss about Sam’s future and a reckless misuse of power.

Sam wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but that wasn’t unusual, and Sam was willing to overlook it. Whatever Ruby lacked in exposition skills, she sure made up for with a mouth like a Hoover.

He figured they’d probably punched each other a few times, and by now had limited themselves to the occasional sophomoric insult, so it should be safe to intrude bearing beverages.

The door swung open with a shove of Sam’s foot, and the sun spilled into the motel room, highlighting the scene with cinematic clarity. The coffee went flying from nerveless fingers as Dean smiled blankly up at him, the lower half of his face slathered in red, and his hair a deeper shade due to whatever it was that dripped in clumps onto his shoulders.

What the guy in the trench coat was doing there, Sam couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Sam sighed, a moment of mourning for the loss of the coffee, and said firmly, “Dean!” When Dean failed to heed him, Sam clapped his hands and gave a sharp whistle to divert Dean from what was left of Ruby on the bed…and the floor…and - with a quick glance upwards - the ceiling, before trying once more.

“ _Dean!_ Spit that out _right now_!” 

                                                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who’re you?” Sam asked Trench Coat impatiently, as he attempted to scrub a gobbet of something from Dean’s ear with a wet washcloth. Dean suffered Sam’s attentions with distracted disinterest, staring at the newcomer’s shiny black shoes as if enamored by his own reflection in the pointy wingtips, even as he idly licked at the gore staining his fingers until nearly his whole hand was shoved into his mouth like some sort of pacifier.

With a bird-like tilt of his head, Trench Coat just continued to stare at Sam, his wide blue eyes focused with a laser-like intensity on the man trying to get guts out of his brother’s hair. When Sam arched an eyebrow in his direction at his continued silence, Trench Coat automatically aped the movement, before coming to the realization that the question had been directed at him. He stood taller, drawing his eyes from the figure of Dean hunched in the middle of the shower curtain on the floor, and spread his shoulders wide, his trench coat flaring open around his legs.

“I am an angel of the Lord. I was sent to grip Dean tight and raise him from perdition.”

Sam just arched another eyebrow, leaving him with an unintended look of comical surprise, and snatched his hand back when Dean – playfully, he hoped – snapped at his fingers.

“Thanks, but I think you did it wrong,” Sam grumbled under his breath, glaring at the stained washcloth in his hand and tossing it to the floor in disgust. “This isn’t working. You need a bath,” Sam scolded Dean. “I can’t take you out in public like this.”

Trench Coat managed to look almost affronted by Sam’s statement. “I did nothing wrong. When I breached Hell’s gates, Dean Winchester was already gone.”

The angel watched silently as Sam stiffened in surprise, before adding, “And I do not need bathed.” 

                                                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, it seemed that due to Sam’s inability to accept his brother’s death, and one – or more - of those pesky demon powers that Azazeal had gifted him with, that Sam had been able to do what even the Crossroads Demon and Ruby couldn’t. It wasn’t a 100% full resurrection, but Sam thought he’d done a pretty damn fine job for not knowing he’d done it at all. Dean might need to have a tiny tree deodorizer hanging from his neck for as long as Sam was sharing a room with him, but his skin, while slightly gray - a bit like meat gone just a bit off, but only really noticeable in full sunlight – remained intact. Dean apparently wasn’t losing important pieces, or even not-so-important ones, so as long as Sam didn’t find a loose kidney in the shower or an eyeball on the nightstand, he could live with the results, he supposed.

Sam figured this made him kind of like the zombie Jesus or something, and maybe he should try that whole turning water into wine thing next - or maybe beer. Dean liked beer.

After he had a little time to think about it, Sam was glad it had happened - he’d been marinating himself in whiskey for nearly all of the time Dean was gone, and waking to find his dead brother not quite so dead anymore was far better than waking to yet another awkward one night stand - but he was pretty damn sure he couldn’t ever do it again. Sam thought it was a confluence of singular events - kind of like drinking Pop Rocks and Coke - where on their own they’re nothing to worry about, but when mixed together, people just kind of had to step back and watch things explode.

Or rise from the dead. Whatever. 

                                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dean,” Sam called over his shoulder, as he led their way towards the library.

When he couldn’t hear the steady shuffle of his brother’s footsteps behind him, he paused, turning to find Dean single-mindedly following the pigeons that had clustered on the sidewalk outside of the building. Sam expected a flurry of wings when Dean ambled into the midst of the flock, but his pace was so sedate that the pigeons remained teasingly just out of reach. The birds were able to keep on with their crumb-pecking meandering as Dean wandered aimlessly amongst them, following whatever bit of movement caught his eye.

But then Dean refocused his attentions on the only non-moving target in the area, an elderly woman who sat at the bus bench eating a donut and sipping some coffee, her back to the scene. Dean shuffled silently closer, the drag of his shoes on the sidewalk whisper soft, and a tiny bit of drool collected in the corner of his mouth like a teardrop just waiting to fall.

Sam jogged back to grab Dean by the arm when it was only inches away from the woman’s shoulder, and dragged him away. Dean groaned at Sam in response, and Sam just smiled, guiding Dean towards a nearby kiosk.

“Stop grumbling. I know we skipped breakfast. How does a cinnamon pretzel sound? My treat!” 

                                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam discovered early on that, much like a teething baby, Dean had developed a habit of chewing on whatever he could reach. More than a few Motorhead tapes had been lost to the cause on their drives, though Dean spat out the Neil Diamond that had somehow hidden itself in the back of the glovebox. Everything Sam had found at the pet store that might curb this instinct did not actually fit Dean’s head due to his lack of a pronounced snout, which left his jaw all too able to bite that hand that fed him. This resulted in Sam with fingers covered in bandages and dependent on the only alternative he could think of, which was an S&M store he found in the yellow pages that offered a wide variety of leather restraints, according to their ad.

The knowing grin the salesclerk gave him as he stuffed the muzzle and the thick leather collar and chain into the nondescript paper bag made Sam hustle out of there with Dean as quickly as possible, leaving their new shadow Castiel behind, curiously studying an assortment of what Sam wouldn’t dare guess the purpose of.

Castiel didn’t seem to see a problem with the current situation. He said something about God’s plan and Lucifer while Sam only half-listened, too busy trying to figure out how the straps worked and worrying if Dean’s bite was contagious, like those movies about zombie monkeys in England. Once he figured he wasn’t going to turn into the walking undead – and that the straps went over, under, and _then_ through – Sam had snarkily suggested that maybe if Dean ate Lucifer, that might fix the problem for everyone.

The angel had paused, giving him that head-tilt-stare combo, and quietly agreed that it might work, but he needed to check with his superiors before instigating any further plan of action in that vein. He then disappeared in a quiet ruffle of feathers, and Sam dropped his face into his hands as Dean gnawed on the bedpost. 

                                                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hunting progressed at its usual pace. Sam was surprised at the sheer number of supernatural creatures that eating seemed to vanquish; it sure was saving them a lot on silver bullets and rock salt. Dean might not be so steady with a weapon any longer, but he had the patience of the dead, and an eerily empty determination to catch whatever it was that was running away from him. Dean’s shuffling gait never ceased until he’d caught what he was after.

Sam supposed that made Dean a little like a greyhound running after a rabbit - a slow, zombie greyhound, hunting eight-foot rabbits that had very sharp teeth and claws.

He became a little concerned that his brother might develop a bit of a gut, since Dean spent most of his time eating someone or other, most of whom were a lot bigger than he was. Being dead, or even not-so-dead, hadn’t done a thing to curb his brother’s appetite. But Dean must have come back from the dead with two hollow legs, because while he might appear pregnant for several hours after a successful hunt – or if he managed to wander away from Sam for any length of time - the roundness of his belly always dissipated as the day wore on.

Sam named Dean’s occasional food-baby anyway, just because it seemed to annoy his brother when Sam patted his stomach and asked when he was due.

Its name was Lester. 

                                                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What perhaps annoyed Sam the most was that even though Dean was one of the undead, Dean still had better luck with women than Sam did.

Sam thought that was just downright unfair. Dean smelled funny, only about one out of every twenty words was intelligible, and he lacked a functioning pulse, but women still seemed to find him charming.

They might be limited to some of the more…unconventional bars, what with Dean needing a firm hand to keep him in line, but Dean was just as successful there as he had been anywhere else. The local hangouts just weren’t keen on having a Hannibal Lecter look-alike wandering around, but the leather collar and chain that kept Dean at heel was par for the course at the new places Dean literally dragged Sam off to.

He was worse than an untrained Rottweiler, Sam figured, but at least Dean didn’t pee on the carpet.

The fact that every conversation with one of Dean’s conquests as they dragged him off by his lead ended embarrassingly along the lines of a shouted, “Don’t take off his muzzle! He’s…uh…been a bad boy!” didn’t make the situation any easier.

Sam didn’t even want to get into the science of things, which pointed out that if there was no blood flow, some things just shouldn’t work as expected, but since when had scientific certainty kept his dead brother down?

Eew, maybe Sam should have thought that one out better. 

                                                                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The only real stumbling block came in the shape of Castiel. He’d returned from wherever he’d gone, informing Sam – and Dean, even if Dean was more enraptured by Castiel’s shadow than the man himself; much like a lethargic cat, he distractedly followed every ripple of movement, leaving Dean shuffling in endless circles behind him – that the Eat Lucifer plan was inadvisable, as it meant Lucifer was free, which was the exact opposite of the desired outcome.

He went on to say something about sixty-six seals, and Sam jumped from his chair, noting the slow up-swing of Dean’s head to follow the motion.

“Sshhh!” Sam hissed. “You remember what happened on our last outing!”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, cocking his head to the side. “You took Dean Winchester to the zoo to celebrate his return, and bought me a hat.”

Sam glanced at the foam elephant ears Castiel had yet to take off, and decided to save that conversation for later.

After all, he could only take care of one problem at a time.

“Yeah, so don’t rile him up by mentioning….” Sam glanced over Castiel’s shoulder at Dean, who was straining against his collar until his shallow grunts of effort came out wheezing gasps, his sweeping hand just missing Castiel as Dean kept snatching at his back, clawed fingers barely brushing the fabric.

Sam grabbed Castiel by the elbow and moved him several steps further from the bed. “…you know…s-e-a-l-s.”

Sam was still trying to pay off that debt…or, at least, Efram P. Hargrove was. Who knew seals were so damn expensive?

“But…”

“Just don’t, all right?”

The bedpost creaked ominously as Dean redoubled his efforts at the new distance between them.

“Dean!” Sam barked. “Sit!”

Dean stilled, though he listed in Castiel’s general direction, eyes fixed on his prize.

“Be a good boy and I’ll turn on _Dora the Explorer_ , ‘k?” Sam said, the cadence of his voice a soothing lilt that seemed to settle Dean’s nerves. Dean took a moment to figure out what was expected of him before he perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, hands hanging limply at his sides.

Castiel went to sit beside him, hands primly clasped in his lap. “I enjoy Dora. She is a brave girl.”

Sam yanked Castiel out of the way just in time.

Angels may be God’s soldiers, but they weren’t the brightest bulbs in the universe.

No wonder they were losing. 

                                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, Sam had started the summer down a brother and up a demon, and was now down a demon and up a brother, with an angel in his back pocket.

God, poker metaphors sounded so dirty when applied to anything but cards, even if the demon part had been more true than not. But at least he was ahead of the game, so to speak.

With Castiel keeping them company, Sam had someone to watch Dean when he needed to make a pit stop. He just had to be sure to remind Castiel that Dean wasn’t allowed off the leash in public, unless he had the okay from Sam, and he rewarded Castiel for babysitting with whatever trinkets fascinated the angel most. Just last week, it was boxes of Tic-Tacs – one for every color of the rainbow – and this week appeared to be bottle caps. The angel hoarded these little knick-knacks in his voluminous coat pockets, which Sam was beginning to believe had the properties of a TARDIS with all the crap he saw going in, but never coming out.

Sam sighed, leaning against the hood of the Impala as he watched Castiel play with Dean in the nearly empty park, throwing Slim Jims that his brother would amble after and bring back half chewed, resulting in a brief tug-of-war when Castiel got his hands on the processed meat product.

Sam took another sip of his coffee, wondering where they might head off to next. There was a poltergeist in Mankato, and reports of a possible kitsune in Gretson. He knew Dean preferred a hunt he could sink his teeth into these days, so it was looking like Gretson might win out.

“Sam Winchester.”

Sam was pulled from his reverie by Castiel’s clipped call. He refocused to find Castiel standing before him, head tilted to the side as he studied Sam’s face with open curiosity. Dean was partially hidden in Castiel’s shadow as if trying to keep out of Sam’s line of sight, the bright red slash of his lips hinting that there might have been a squirrel massacre that Sam had somehow missed in the last few minutes.

“Are you well?”

“Sure, just planning our next move.”

“Our Lord and Savior insists that we go to Santa Fe to find the next seal…”

Dean moaned, the noise more a gurgled sound of discontent than anything else, blank eyes wide and unfocused.

Great, now Sam would have to play that God-awful _Sesame Street_ tape he’d managed to find. It put Dean right to sleep, and would cut down on his fussing for a few hours.

If only he could find a way to shut Castiel up about those damn seals. It was hard enough having to babysit his not-so-dead brother, as well as his slow-witted sidekick, but there was no way Sam was fitting sixty-six seals in the backseat of the car.

Dead or not, Dean would have a fit. 

                                                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was surprised to find that even with Dean being not as dead as expected, or as alive as he’d prefer, they were…happy.

Bobby kept insisting that they needed to do something about Dean, because it just wasn’t respectable to be carting a dead man back and forth across the country. There were health code violations prohibiting such things, as he reminded Sam every opportunity he got, his voice tinny and thin over the phone.

But how could Sam even consider redeading his undead brother? Dean might not have a pulse…or breathe…or really be all that much of a conversationalist anymore, but he was still Dean.

It wasn’t like Dean had ever really been prone to heart-to-heart conversations anyway, but he was more than willing to listen as Sam blathered on about whatever he wanted, and Dean sometimes even let Sam pick the radio station, since Sam was doing all of the driving. Dean ate just as much, picked up just as many women - if not more than usual - and protected both his brother and his car with a quiet ferocity.

He had even taken Castiel under his wing, like some sort of stray dog they’d picked up at the roadside.

Dean even had the same sense of humor, as long as Sam was the butt of the joke. Sam nearly had a heart attack every time he turned around to find Dean eye-to-chin, looming quietly behind him, or flipped on the lamp in the middle of the night to see Dean standing silent sentinel at his bedside. Sam’s girly shriek made the corner of Dean’s mouth twitch in an approximation of a smirk every time, his chain lying coiled like an abandoned metal snake on the carpet by Dean’s bed.

It seems if he gave Dean enough time, he could gnaw through anything.

Yeah, things hadn’t changed much after all. You didn’t need a pulse to be a Winchester these days. Sam - stubborn bastard that he was, as he was sure Dean would point out, could he string together a coherent sentence - was the only one that continued to buck family tradition.  
 

 


End file.
